


Found

by sanchari (s_h_y)



Category: Mahabharata - Vyasa
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2019-01-19 16:19:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12413640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s_h_y/pseuds/sanchari





	Found

He opens his eyes worried.

He’s been doing that a lot lately. Waking up already uneasy, chest already tight and throat already sore, before he even has the chance to take in his surroundings. Like now.

The room is still dark, soft, quiet save for their breathing. He doesn’t really remember falling asleep, but it must have been hours ago.

God, what’s wrong? What’s wrong? He asks himself, but he can’t come up with an answer and it hurts.

Breathe. He pushes himself upright against the cool headboard and thinks about that instead, the headboard, the sheets. The sound of the waves on the beach outside, crashing against the sand rocks. In and out. Ebb and tide. Back and forth. Push and pull. In, out. In, out…

Oh. Right. The waves, the beach. The memory of exactly where he is comes back, and a sense of soothing coolness with it. He turns his head a little to the side and sure enough, there he is (there he always is). Arjuna can see him a little better now, dark skin against darker night. He turns back to the ceiling and closes his eyes again. In, out.

It’s strange, but times like this always take him back to way back when, to before, to the memory of a thin mat spread over a cool earth floor, Bhima on one side and the twins on the other – because of course they slept in age order then, just like they did everything else. Back to when they still had a father of their own instead of having to go through this pathetic tug-of-war with Duryodhana’s – back to when Duryodhana had still been nothing more than a faceless name, Hastinapura nothing more than someone’s else’s memory.

He had not been sure what to feel then, when they had first come back. None of them had. That homecoming, that leaving of their home for the palace and all its inhabitants who acted as if they knew them already, it had been like getting lost and being found at the same time.

Of course, that had passed with time and experience, until living at the palace, living their lives as princes, had started to feel less like being lost at sea and more like sailing firmly and surely through it. Forming real relationships to replace the forced ones, learning to fight (he’ll never forget the weight of his first bow in his hand, the pressure of the strap of his first quiver), to debate, to conduct themselves, to co-exist with their cousins in something close to peace. For a while, there had been calm.

And then storm hit, and hit hard, and they had been lost all over again, stranding in the middle of the ocean with no wind, no sense of direction, nothing. Nothing but emptiness/water stretching away from them on all four sides and the knowledge of how vast and empty and lethal the ocean can be. Pretending to be dead, pretending to be brahmanas, pretending to be full every night when the last grains of rice were gone. Lost.

And the swayamvar, going mostly because they had nothing better to do anyway, because all they really wanted was the food, because there would be other kings and princes and warriors there and maybe none of them would admit it while they were pretending but they were a little homesick.

They had gone because they had nothing better to do, but then he’d seen it, the bow and the water and that fish rotating above them, and he’d seen her (and heard her) and it had taken him, the combination of that challenge and that prize (he is ashamed to admit it now, years later, but that was what she had been then, a person and a relationship and even responsibility, in a way, because you couldn’t have a relationship with anyone without being responsible to them, for them, with them. She had been all of these things, but she had also been a prize.).

So he had looked to Bhima for permission – well, no, approval – and in a split second it had been decided, the result of that day. There had never been any question of his losing.

There had only been all the questions later, questions and raised voices and then they were something worse than just lost, they were in chaos, and then. And then he had showed up, out of nowhere, as if he and his brother had simply conjured themselves out of thin air purely for rescuing purposes. Krishna had spoken for, what, maybe ten minutes. And by the time he fell silent again he had somehow taken hold of their tiny little drifting boat and reeled them all back to shore.

He had not known, at the time, that the shift in the atmosphere that had occurred at that moment had been a shift in his whole life. Because Krishna kept coming back, somehow, kept showing up, until they started going on the occasional drive – Arjuna driving at first, taking the path down by the river while Krishna leaned against the wall behind him and talked quietly, pointing out a bird here, a specific type of flower, the sunset, and then soon he started taking the reins himself, and then they were laughing about their brothers, how ridiculous (exasperating, irritating) they could be at times, you won’t believe what he did yesterday – and then they were being referred to as friends and, well. It wasn’t untrue.

It had just been so easy. One of the easiest, simplest things that had ever happened to him. Maybe the only easy thing. He rolls on to his side in the darkness and tries to recall the first time he ever actually, consciously stated to himself that this was a friendship, that Krishna was his friend. The forest, probably. When they’d driven out there together, Arjuna still smarting with anger and disappointment over the mess that was Khandavaprastha that they had been given (that Yudhisthira had accepted). He hadn’t even really noticed where they were going until Krishna prodded him to get off, and then he’d alighted in the middle of a clearing. It had been lush, green, all cool grass underfoot and sunlight streaming through leaves. He’d said, “It’s beautiful,” and Krishna had simply smiled and nodded and answered, “Burn it down.”

Arjuna smiles now at the memory. He’d been nonplussed. This had been before he’d learned that some way, somehow, Krishna always, always had a plan. That he always knew what he was doing. Krishna had managed to goad him into it eventually – he was good at that – but all the same, at that moment when the figure of another person came swimming into focus through the smoke, there had been that moment of sick panic – what had he done? If he’d hurt this man – if he’d been responsible for – for the death of his family, or something – he was a Kshatriya, he was supposed to protect, he’d lost his father to a wronged man’s curse –

Yes, it had probably been then. He’d looked over at Krishna, breath freezing, and thought, no, he’s my friend, he wouldn’t.  
Wouldn’t what? He’s still not really sure. Wouldn’t do that to him, he supposes. Or wouldn’t let that happen to him, which at this point makes just as much sense. All he knows is that whenever things are starting to look really really bad, he starts waiting for the door to open, for Krishna to walk in and smile and ask what he’s looking so worried about.

It’s a calming image to think about.

He exhales slowly, holding it in his head. Trying to use it to combat the other image, the one of Duryodhana’s leering face. The knowledge that bad things are going to happen. He doesn’t know what they are yet, but they’ll happen. Building Indraprastha, seeing Yudhisthira made king, performing the Rajasuya. It’s too much. They’re going to pay for it. They’ve never made it this far without some kind of disaster hitting them before, and it’s not going to happen this time either. The storm is coming. Their boat is going to get hurled into open sea again. If they’re lucky, that is –

“Arjuna,” comes a voice out of the black, sleep-muffled. The rustle of cloth a few inches away. Arjuna feels a slight pang of guilt. “Yes?”

Krishna’s silhouette sits up a little, edges closer until they’re both leaning against the headboard, shoulder to shoulder. “Stop thinking so much.”

He breathes out again, slowly. “Everything will be fine.” He says it aloud to give it more weight. It works, a little.  
Krishna hums steadily next to him, tapping out a rhythm against their knees. “Of course it will.” He sounds more awake now but gentle still, and Arjuna is wordlessly grateful that he’s not mocking him right now. (But then, he wouldn’t.) “It’ll all be fine. You watch. The worst thing that’s going to happen to you is me beating you up tomorrow when we sleep through breakfast because of this.”

Arjuna snorts. Only Krishna. Dark of skin, dark-haired and dark-eyed, so very light-hearted. “Because you could beat me up. Sure.”

“Hey, now. I’m stronger than I look.”

“Not saying much when you look like a stalk of grass.”

“Such disrespect. Don’t forget I’m older than you.”

“That doesn’t count when we were both born in the same year.”

A pause. The waves come rushing in to shore again. It sounds like someone hushing them.

“Hey, Arjuna.”

“Mmm?”

“Shut up.”

Arjuna snickers, and after a second Krishna joins him, stretching back down the length of the bed. “Go to sleep, jackass.”

Arjuna sighs, sliding back down on to the pillows, and gazes up towards the ceiling. The room is dark, soft, quiet save for their breathing. He closes his eyes. Thank you, he murmurs, or maybe he only thinks it.  
Either way, Krishna’s only response is to kick him as he rolls over.


End file.
